


Run(a)way Model

by AlexSeanchai



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Adrien Agreste Needs a Hug, F/M, Gabriel Agreste's A+ Parenting, POV Outsider, Podfic Welcome, but if you read this and then the work inspired by this, it's a complete story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 11:30:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20741501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexSeanchai/pseuds/AlexSeanchai
Summary: Sometimes people slip through the cracks. Some of those people make sure they're unobserved first.





	Run(a)way Model

**Author's Note:**

> I have been stalled on this since July and I don't feel like reworking it for canon compliance with "Reflekdoll", never mind "Feast", but I am pleased with what I did write <strike>and I haven't posted fic at all in two weeks, which means my inbox is lonely</strike>. So here.

Claire doesn't pay the kid much more mind than she ever does. He's a regular at this convenience store, maybe a year or two older than Noemie, never seems to have a parent with him; he's usually here for a bottle of iced coffee, some snack-size chunks of cheddar, and a hot sandwich if there are any, a cold one if not. Sometimes a bottle of ibuprofen. Rarely, something sweet. She mostly ever pays attention to him in the first place because he looks kind of like that model Noemie has proclaimed her eternal love for, and because Claire works days; kids her granddaughter's age should be in school most of the times—such as now—that she sees this boy, and with as much food as he buys, she has to wonder who's supposed to be feeding him.

This morning Claire rings him up for a forest green backpack, a black hooded sweatshirt, a multi-pack of boxer-briefs and another of socks, a travel toiletries kit, a bag of mint chocolates, an electric hair clipper kit, and a box of dark brown hair dye. He pays in cash like always, and the customer after him gets snippy over the ten-cent difference between what the price tag on this protein bar's shelf says and what the register says the bar costs, and Claire isn't getting paid to worry about customers who don't cause trouble.

* * *

Estelle passes Mademoiselle Chloé's friend in the corridor; his messenger bag clips her housekeeping cart and he mutters an apology, shrugging it and his green backpack more securely onto his shoulders without pulling his hands from his hoodie's pockets. She's worked here long enough to recognize the blond boy as one of the few people to whom Chloé has given permanent access to her suite, so it's no cause for concern when he lets himself in. Mademoiselle must have demanded homework help over lunch hour, or else just made him carry an extra school bag home for her. Not Estelle's business. Nothing happening in that suite is Estelle's business until she's ready to start cleaning up after it.

One and a half clean suites later, Estelle frowns at the blonde hair clippings in the wastebasket by the toilet. Has Chloé gotten the idea that she can cut her hair better than her usual stylist does, again? Oh God, Estelle doesn't want a repeat of that; it happened once, two years ago, and _once was enough_. And what on earth has left these dark stains in the bathtub?

A little later, Jean-Stéphane warns her to hurry up, because Mademoiselle will be home for lunch soon. Estelle checks the time on her phone; if she were less used to losing track of what the clock says, she might wonder why she thought it was already midafternoon.

* * *

Malik isn't supposed to let the customers notice he's paying attention to them, especially not when he thinks he might have particular reason to pay attention. So when this customer slips inside—twitchy mid-teens boy, pale, dark brown hair clipped nearly as short as Malik's; black hoodie, blue jeans, orange sneakers—Malik greets him, points out the sign about carrying bags around the store, takes the boy's green backpack behind Coralie's register, and goes right back to putting the latest batch of saleable donations on the racks.

The boy takes a pair of jeans to the changing cubicles and comes out with it a few minutes later. He glances at Malik, noting he's there, and heads to the racks of boys' shirts, pausing at the jewelry counter to give a long look to the rings behind glass. A few minutes after that, he's stuffing his purchases—the jeans, three tees, and two long-sleeve button-downs, all in dark colors—into his backpack and heading out of the store. He probably hasn't stolen anything, Malik judges, since he was never _near_ anything small enough to conceal under the hoodie. Unless one counts the jewelry, but Malik was watching closely enough to know the boy never even reached toward the glass.

"Why do people take our tags off," grumbles Coralie a couple hours later, passing Malik with an armful of clothing left outside the changing cubicles for the employees to rehang. She waggles an elbow, drawing Malik's attention to the tee draped over that arm (black with a few thin stripes in yellow, light blue, and a couple different greens). "Do they think we can't tell youth shirts from adult, or are they just making us retag things for fun, or what are they even doing here." She doesn't raise her pitch as though she's asking questions, but it isn't like Malik would have more answers than the sympathetic smile he's giving her.

* * *

Karine counts the boy's cash again, subtly tilting each bill to check the hologram strip. It's legitimate money, though, and enough of it to pay for the used bicycle the boy wants, plus a helmet, a bike lock, and a basket big enough to hold his green backpack, so she feels a little guilty about doubting him.

Alain comes to cover the counter while Karine adjusts the bike to fit the boy's long limbs. His phone beeps; "Akuma alert," Alain says.

The boy flinches, drawing in on himself, his cheeks going from rosy to pale. New to the city, Karine thinks; he must have been in Paris long enough to get that Hawkmoth is dangerous, not long enough to get that Ladybug and Chat Noir keep them safe. Most attacks stick to places Karine's shop is not, though—they're in the eighteenth arrondissement, and Hawkmoth seems to operate from somewhere a lot more central—so Karine, deliberately nonchalant, asks "Gonna be citywide?"

"Probably not," Alain says, frowning at his phone; he has one earbud in, one dangling. "Ray-gun control type. She might do like Darkblade later, but if she doesn't, it's over by Notre Dame. We're well out of range."

"What's the over-under on how long it takes Ladybug and Chat Noir to handle it?" Karine wonders idly, wrenching a nut into place.

"Hmm." Alain glances over at her and her customer. "Looks like it's been about ten minutes and they're not there yet, so give it five more for them to arrive, fifteen or twenty to sort it out?"

"Five euro on under thirty minutes altogether," says Karine to Alain, and smiles at the boy. "Don't worry, young man," she tells him, because he's trembling like to faint. "You're more likely to crash this bike than get hurt by Hawkmoth, and the bike will do you more lasting harm."

"Ten minutes," the boy says, looking at Alain; Karine knows he heard her—his wide green eyes were focused on her for that moment—but she isn't sure he cares. "Notre Dame's not that—she should be there," he tells Alain, and turns to Karine: "Ladybug should _be_ there. Where are they?"

"Traffic jam?" jokes Alain.

Karine gives the last nut one last twist. "There you are, young man," she tells him, patting the handlebars. "Ready to ride." She pauses. "Maybe you should sit a while before getting on, though. If you faint at twenty kilometers per hour, you will crash and it will hurt."

The boy nods, and leaves with the bike without further comment.

* * *

Camélia writes _Émilien_ on the compostable coffee cup, puts it with the plated chocolate chip muffin and bottle of water, and calls that name, then moves on to the next customer. She's called two more names before the pale boy with the short dark hair and green backpack looks up from the brand new phone he just unboxed and is setting up. He grabs Émilien's order and scurries back to his table, where he messes with the phone, nibbles at the muffin, drinks the water, and doesn't really touch the coffee. It's not like he's the first to stop by the café mostly for the wifi access.

When Camélia comes around a while later to clean tables, Émilien is still there. Because moving things get her attention and she can't not read things, she notices he's watching a news clip of Paris's fox-girl and turtle-boy and—does Hawkmoth have _two_ fashion disasters out? no, the girl with the long black braid is _way_ too cute to be his—with the banner text _Where are Ladybug and Chat Noir?_

Because it's rude to watch over people's shoulders and to stare, Camélia consciously pays attention to getting the tables around Émilien clean, not to the tears glimmering in his eyes. Anyway, this is Beauvais; he should be more worried about someone stealing the bike he chained to the light pole out front than about Paris's weird magic drama.

* * *

Jìngyí really hasn't cared about anything much in Paris for a while. By which she means, if someone happens to mention that one of their freak shows took over the city again, she'll be nervous about her ex until she finds out it's over, but she won't go looking for details. There's a reason the man is her ex. The reason is, he does not think about Jìngyí or Lián half as often, put together, as Jìngyí thinks about him. That is related to the reason she and Lián live this far north of Paris.

So when Charlotte texts her a link to a Ladyblog post with today's date in the URL, she almost doesn't click.

A couple of minutes later, she's yanking her headphones out of her tablet and scurrying across the library to interrupt her daughter and friends' literature project; the girls love this stuff, they'll want to see the whole video.

"_This is Alya Césaire with the Ladyblog,_" says the recorded Ladyblogger at a library-appropriate volume, entrancing Lián, Eléonore, Talia, and Khadija; two tables away, a white boy some years older than Lián lifts his head from the black sweatshirt he was trying not to sleep on. "_I'm here with Carapace and a **new** hero!_"

"_Rena Rouge had to jet,_" says Carapace. "_Sorry, Alya, I know you were looking for a chance to interview her, and I know she wanted to talk to your viewers. Anyway I'd like you to meet—_" Whatever he says, it's in no language Jìngyí knows, or else he's just garbling it. He gestures at the masked young woman beside him, who's wearing a pained expression over skintight black edged with neon green; her eyes are blue-irised with green sclera, and she has black cat ears above her long black braid.

The cat heroine repeats the four syllables correctly; the subtitles read _午夜小貓 | Ngyì Shiaémuao_. Jìngyí would pronounce those characters _Wǔyè Xiǎomāo_, but Jìngyí's family is not from Wenzhou. "_It's spelled 'Chatonne la Minuit',_" she explains, "_or you can just call me Minuit._"

"_And you're a part-time addition to the team, like Carapace, is that correct?_" asks Alya.

"_That's right,_" says Minuit. "_Rena Rouge told me I'm here to cover for Ladybug and Chat Noir, and—this is exhilarating, don't get me wrong, but it's also terrifying, and I really hope the original heroes get back soon so I can go back to the life I'm used to._"

Jìngyí can hardly blame her, but also she really hopes Minuit doesn't abandon ship the moment the first string is back in action. There have been rumors for months that Ladybug is French-Chinese, not white French like Chat Noir and Queen Bee, but nothing confirmed, and it's hard to tell just by looking; if Minuit sticks around, there will be an _obviously_ East Asian heroine in Paris for Lián to emulate. Eléonore has Rena Rouge, after all, and while Khadija mostly gets to be Ladybug in their make-believe, that's more because her brother Ibrahim won't let his being three years younger than the girls keep him from being Carapace, and because Lián likes coming up with new akumas to be and Talia would rather play Chat Noire.

…Not that Jìngyí pays attention to happenings in Paris.

The interview is several minutes long, touching on why today's akuma attack stopped— "_Apparently Hawkmoth can call back the butterflies,_" says Carapace; "_which explains a lot about Heroes' Day,_" Minuit adds—and where Ladybug and Chat Noir are:

"_We don't know,_" Carapace says simply. "_This isn't like either of them, and we're worried._" He scowls. "_And if it turns out they're on a date in London or some shit and just didn't think to tell us they're out of town, then we are going to have some words about operational security and need-to-know._"

"_I doubt it's a date in London,_" says Minuit with an eyeroll. "_Ladybug keeps turning him down for dates in Paris; why would she take him to London?_" She stops a moment, her expression going from frustration to concern. "_I hope he hasn't decided to quit fighting beside her because she keeps telling him to take things seriously and stop trying to romance her mid-battle,_" she says softly, and two tables away that white boy drops his face back into the sweatshirt in front of him, muffling a groan. "_Ladybug needs Chat Noir. I hope he knows that._"

Alya ends the video with her usual sign-off for prerecorded videos—not that Jìngyí pays attention to weird news from Paris—and Jìngyí puts down the tablet.

"You don't think Chat Noir _really_ left because Ladybug won't date him, do you, Mme. Jìngyí?" asks Talia. "Because that sounds like something Lián's father would do."

How much does she love that the local meter stick for _world's worst person_ is spelled _Lián's father_? "I'm sure Chat Noir is a much better person than that," Jìngyí reassures the girls, and adds dryly, "And if he _did_, I really hope Ladybug isn't off chasing him. She deserves so much better than a man like Lián's father."

Two tables away, that white boy covers his head with his arms.

Lián is bringing up a news clip on her phone, probably the first (maybe only, but definitely first) akuma battle featuring Minuit, and her friends are gathering around. Jìngyí texts Charlotte back: _world's best girlfriend!_

* * *

Pauline's sprawled across a couch in the hostel common area, sort of listening to Magalie read today's headlines off her phone, mostly eyeing the cute-but-sad guy sitting where he can stare out the window—short dark hair, dark stud earrings, green backpack at his feet, and if he's half as built under the blue jeans and gray tee as his arms make him look then _damn_. He's fresh from the shower, and there isn't enough privacy around here to do more than daydream about messing him up enough he'll want another, but maybe some kisses will make him smile. Some kisses will make Pauline smile, anyway; Magalie might be annoyed, but Magalie, who does not properly appreciate pretty people of any gender, is used to Pauline.

" 'Teen model Adrien Agreste kidnapped'," Magalie reads. " 'Ransom demand for five million euro issued'."

Pauline sits up. "No way. The boy's hot, but he is not _five million euro_ hot."

"It'll be his parents paying," Magalie points out. "Not his fanclub. I mean, if the police don't find him first," she adds, shrugging. "They hate when people pay ransom demands, it makes kidnapping seem legit."

"Nobody's paying anybody anything," says cute guy; he's glaring out the window now, but he only sounds tired. "His father runs a big fashion house. You don't get to run that size company by being prone to emotionally driven errors of judgment."

"Are you saying you wouldn't think _your_ kid's life is worth more than five million euro?" asks Pauline.

"I'm saying," says cute guy, "paying _any_ ransom because that sounds better than option two, getting the kid back in pieces—instead of finding a third choice—is an error in judgment. Two if they don't prove the kid's alive first."

"Oh, good point," says Magalie, "let me see the whole article—" She scrolls for a moment, Pauline scooting to read off the same screen. "I can't tell if they've given the parents or the police proof of life," Magalie says, looking back up. "It doesn't say—"

He isn't there. Pauline gets up, and yeah, that looks like his green backpack disappearing into one of the dorm rooms. She flops back down, pouting.

"Don't look at me like that," Magalie says, attention back on her phone. "You didn't even ask his name."

**Author's Note:**

> My blanket permission statement is in my profile as always, in case anyone is intrigued enough by this idea to want to continue with it. And while anyone who continues it can of course do exactly as they like, I intended a happy ending, and I'm hopeful someone will want to write one. (Even if, as is likely, it's not the one I planned.)
> 
> Find me on [Dreamwidth](https://alexseanchai.dreamwidth.org/) and [Tumblr](https://alexseanchai.tumblr.com/).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Run(a)way Model: Part Deux](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20883683) by [Lara Winner (rah10381)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rah10381/pseuds/Lara%20Winner)


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